


Where Do We Go From Here?

by LiraelClayr007



Series: Season 15 codas [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Post-Episode: s15e03 The Rupture, everyone is in pain, no one is talking about it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2021-01-03 04:13:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21173231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiraelClayr007/pseuds/LiraelClayr007
Summary: He stands outside, a breeze in his face. The air smells surprisingly fresh and clean. At first he looks around, mystified, but then he remembers--the world didn’t end for everyone a few minutes ago. Just for him.**a 15x03 coda





	Where Do We Go From Here?

Closing the door feels too big, like rolling a stone in front of a tomb. Cas knows leaving is right, but _right_ has never been the same as _easy_, and this is no exception. So he doesn’t hesitate.

The click of the latch booms in his ears.

He stands outside, a breeze in his face. The air smells surprisingly fresh and clean. At first he looks around, mystified, but then he remembers--the world didn’t end for everyone a few minutes ago. Just for him.

“I don’t even have a car,” he says to no one. He does, but it’s still in town; they’d all been shellshocked by the loss of Rowena so he’d ridden home in the back of the Impala.

Home. Right.

He starts walking because he has nothing else to do. At first walking feels good--his muscles stretch, warm, ache. But after awhile it all seems pointless, so when he sees a fallen tree not far off the road he stops and sits.

He does not think about the demon wearing Jack’s face--using Jack’s voice--turning to ash in his hands.

He does not think about Rowena, a parody of Crowley’s words on her lips, falling into hell.

He does not think about Dean…letting him go.

He has nothing now, so he does not think.

At all.

**

Sam washes his hands.

Part of him knows Rowena’s blood is gone, that he washed it away hours ago. But still he scrubs, trying to wash away the horror, the ache, the guilt.

Sacrifice. She’d been a sacrifice, but less willingly given than forcefully taken. And what utter shit that this family be asked to sacrifice anything more.

The list of those lost starts to march through his head, but he stops it before it gets too far. Thinking about Mom and Dad, about Jack… He turns off the tap, runs wet fingers through his hair, trying to steady himself.

Inexplicably, he finds himself wishing he’d been able to build a pyre for Rowena. She’d become a hunter, in a sideways sort of way. She’d deserved the honor. She doesn’t deserve the horrors of hell.

_She didn’t deserve a knife in her gut either_, a voice in his head says.

“She made me!” he chokes, but he knows it’s a lie. She had asked, he had said yes. Not because of any prophecy, but because it had been the only way to save the world.

“I had to,” he whispers, and this, at least, is closer to the truth.

But there is blood on his hands. He turns the water on, he’s got to scrub the blood off.

**

Dean leans against the edge of the table, watching Cas go. For a moment he thinks about saying something--good luck, have a nice life, don’t let the door hit you on the ass--but he somehow manages to hold his tongue. He’s _mad_, but he’s not _mean_. Is he?

Whatever. Right now he doesn’t care.

He gets a beer from the fridge, hesitates, then puts it back. Not today.

On the way to his room the last few minutes replay in his mind, a never ending loop of stinging accusation and aching frustration. Words he wishes he could unhear and others he wishes he could unsay.

_And why is it that “something” always seems to be you?_

_Now you can barely look at me._

_I think it’s time for me to move on._

He’s sitting at his desk, unsure how or when he got here. He squeezes his eyes shut, wishing he could just wipe everything from his mind. The smile that grows on his lips is cold. “Wish granted,” he says to himself, reaching into his desk drawer for the bottle of whisky he’s got stashed there for just such occasions.

He ignores the glasses on his shelf, drinks straight from the bottle.

A few drinks later (or nine or ten, who’s counting?) Dean starts talking to the empty room.

“You left. Again. It’s what you _always_ do when things get tough. You leave. I always thought it was just you being scared, or maybe it was just an angel thing, or maybe you just didn’t want to be too close to me anymore…” He stops and shakes his head, like an idea is stuck somewhere and he’s trying to shake it loose. “But it wasn’t!” He slams the bottle onto the desk, hard enough that a book falls off the corner and a framed picture falls face down, shattering the glass. Dean barely notices. “Everytime you left it was because Chuck was bored and wanted to stir things up. And me being worried about you, _missing_ you…”  
He covers his face with his hands. His last words are barely a whisper.

“Did that mean anything?”

**

_Where do we go from here?  
Where do we go from here?  
The battle’s done,  
And we kinda won.  
So we sound our victory cheer.  
Where do we go from here?_  
\--Joss Whedon, Once More, with Feeling (_Buffy the Vampire Slayer_ 6x07)

**Author's Note:**

> When the episode was over my first thought was _There's no way in hell I'm writing a coda for that. I'd never get through it._ But this morning I somehow got "Where Do We Go From Here"--the somewhat sad song at the end of the Buffy musical--in my head and it sparked my muse. And it was possibly therapeutic to write. ;)


End file.
